GENTLEMAN VAL.

Western Star, Issue 1353, 11 May 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

GENTLEMAN VAL.

Act I. —1860.—'. . . And, starting, as he does to.day, an actor in the great theatre of life, we can oonfidentl y predict for him that he will win much deserved success, many well-merited honours, and troops of friends. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the toast ol the evening—' Success to Valentine Hillyer!' The Toast had been drunk with enthusiasm, thanks had been duly rendered by the young hero of the night, and now the many guests who were crowding his step-mother's room in honour of his coming of age were back in the ball-room, and dancing had begun again with unabated vigor. Val himself was the gayest of the gay ; and indeed it seemed to one kindly old lady who sat watching him that his bright animated face waa the most interesting in the room. It was gentle and lovable, oval in shape, with a pair of large gray eyes, and as yet the smooth cheeks were wholly guiltless of whisker. His hair was fair, and worn rather long, for Maßter Val was possessed of certain rhyming capabilities on the strength of which he imagined himself to be I a bit of a poet, and he carefully dressed up to the character.

The old lady who was watching him noted the intense admiration that shone in his eyes as they rested upon the girl with whom he was danoing, and, being an old-l'aahonad body who still believed in euch things,, she forthwith began weaving a little romance about the two. Had he« sight been a little keener, the romance would never have b9en woven, for Dorothy Fane—pretty spoilt Dorothy, with admirers by the score and the world before her—'would have been the first to ridicule such a fancy as that she could ever care seriously for Valentine Hillyer. To dance with him, flirt with him, fight his battles, and take a real interest in his pursuits, Dorothy was very ready to do ; but, if her father, who thought she could do do wrong, occasionally ventured on a gentle remonstrance, she opened her blue eyes in wonder. Val would never be so silly as to think they could be more than friends, she averred. But of these and similar speeches the young fellow knew nothing, and on that birthday evening at all events he was in a fool's paradise of delight. ' The violin business goes on splendidly,' he was confiding to Her. 'S. and L.'—mentioning the groat violinists of the day—• heard me play the other day, and, although of course I was horribly nervous, they were both very kind, and S. actually wrote to me afterwards and offered me a place in his own orchestra; You should have seen the maters face! I tell her that my fortune is as good as won, and that I shall make far wore than ever,.l could have screwed out ;of the factory.' They paused a moment as they neared the platform where the band was seated, and Val's next words were spoken under cover of the mußio. ' But I'd fling up all my chances for the sake of an extra valse with you, Dolly. Cut out that next fellow's name, and put mine, instead. Do—there's a darlirg!' And naughty Dorothy, mightily pleased with this handsome young lover, albeit the sight of bis anxious face did not make her heart beat one jot the faster, calmly did as he had begged her, and made Val happy with the extra dance. 'Are things going on more smoothly at home, Val ? ' she asked, as they sauntered into the conservatories.

The boy shook his head impatiently. ' No ; they are worse than ever,' he said ruefully. ' Those brothers of mine are at me everlastingly with their cant about work, work, work—just as if my life had been given to me for no better purpose than to grind myself to powder in endeavouring to become a partner in the lactory.' 'Perhaps thoy are right, though,' said Dorothy teasingly. Not that she thought so in the least, but she could not resist the temptation of' working Yal up,' as she phrased it. She liked to see tbe pale cheeks redden and the gray eyes flash with anger. He had a way too of tossing back his long hair in a fashion she found very attractive. ' Dorothy 1 How dare you say that ?'

They were at some distance from the other listeners, and, while she seated herself on a low couch, he stood before her moody and petulant. Dorothy did not trouble to answer. The fact was, she had been thinking but little of Yal Hillyer that night. She wa« wearing a certain ring which her glove hid from hit jealous eyes, and, as she sat tbere in the semidarkness, she was thinking of the man who had placed it on her finger on the previous day —a Mr George Ransom, her affianced husband. Heigh-ho! Why was Yal dependent for his very maintenance on a couple of disagreeable brothers and a capricious step-mother ? And why was not Val Mr. Ransom ? Then, instead of an elderly man with thin pinched lips and a grating laugh, her lover would have been this bright beautiful-faced boy who played and danced and sang, who wrote sonnets about her own pretty eyes and composed minuets (or her fairy footsteps. Heigh-bo—-and once again heigh-ho. Was ever fate so hard to a poor unlucky girl ?—for of course she must marry a rich man. And the worst was still to come, for she had not told Yal of her engagement yet,' and she dreaded his hearing of it from other lips. Perhaps she had better tell him now; and, primed with so good a resolution, she glanced up. Lover-like, Val read the glance as one of encouragement, and seated himself instantly beside her. ' Don't let us quarrel—wo two,' he said persuasively—' for I know you are one with me in this matter. And don't tease me Dolly. You would not do it, dear, if you knew how badgered and bullied I am every hour of my life.'

' Ts it really so hard ? ' In spite of 4 the inevitable explanation she knew she must soon make, Dorothy's voice grew softer as she spoke, and the boy unswered her gratefully. 'ltis so good of you to care !' he said. 1 Yes it is very hard. As you know, nay poor father had a horror of lawyers, and consequently insisted up an drawing up his own will. The result was that he mado such a muddle of it—poor dear fellow!—that they toll me I shall sot have a farthing of the money unless I go into that wretched factory as third partner.' ' I don't want to bo unsympathil ,' broke in Dorothy; ' but why can't you dt> as they all want ?'

' Why can't I?' echoed Val. He stretched

out his arms and drew a long breath. ' Dorothy,' he said simply, ' you have seen a mother with her first baby, haven't you ? And haven't you noticed the holy reverent way in which she looks at it sometimes ? I don't mean a Madonna; I mean just a common mothor.' Dorothy Pane gave a little nod of assent. * I cannot express myself properly, but don't you see what I mean ? ' went on Val Hillyer. ' You cannot imagine that womm putting down her child at some one else's oidding and sweeping it away from her thoughts, can you ? Well, neither can I forget my violin. It is not a whim with me—it is my life, my everything. When I am happy, wildly happy, I take it in my arms, and it throbs under my touch like a living thing. It sympathises j it loves me as I love it; its voice rinps out c'ear and exultant; and sometimes'—the flush in his cheeks deepened—' almost without my will, it begins a -weclding-march, and then I know that my whole glorious future lies in its music. When I am wretched, it comforts me, and at night I wake from my dreams with its wonderful musio ringing in my ears. Dorothy,' he went, on passionately, * how can I leave it ? Whenever I touch it, whenever I lift it from its case, it seems to whisper the same promise j it seems to tell me that its secrets—its beautiful seorets—are not to be grasped by a young hand, even though that hand be a lover's, but that if I work and wait the secrets shall be mine some day. And some day they shall!' There was along pause after this speeoh. and then Val gave a little laugh. • Pray forgive such an outburst, Dolly,' he said, in a half-shamed fashion;' but I wanted you to understand., And now shall we go back ?'

' Wait a minute,' said Dorothy pettishly; 'I have something to tell you. lam —I mean —I ought to——' She stammered and stopped. Then, angry with herself for feeling such embarrassment, and angrier with Yal for being the cause of it, she suddenly snatched off her glove and held up her hand. ' That is my engagement-ring,' sue said defiantly. •Your what?'

•My engagement-ring. I am going to marry Mr George Eanßom. Val, don't hold my arm like that—you hurt me!' ' You are going to marry—— Say it again, please—l want to understand you!' His face frightened her. It was drawn, ugly, white, and his words were thick and hurried.

• I am going to marry George Ransom.' she repeated. ' Leave me alone, Val—you hurt me!'

•Hurt you ' ? Ha, ha ! He loosened his grasp, and, stepping back a pace, stood laughing at her. ' I hurt you, did I? ' he questioned. * I held your arm too roughly ? That hurts, of course, and is rong and wicked, for we are talking of arms, not hearts. Ah. my heart! Dolly,' be said, with a piteous moan,' tell me it is not true! Tell me that you are laughing at me—that is a cruel, silly jest; tell me that your father wants you to marry this man, and that you and I must find a way out of the difficulty and be happy at last!'

' I think you must be mad, Mr Hillyer!' Dorothy's voice was cold and hard. • I tell you I am going to marry Mr Ransom—marry him of my own free will—and you have not the slightest right to object. See—there are some people coming back here !' Yal turned and 'looked towards the ballroom. There must have been a mist before the eyes that were usually so keen, for he could see but the blurred outline of those who were approaching. In the distance he heard the final ohords of the valse and the voices of the dancers; and then, as these last came nearer, he turned to Dorothy with a slight bow. ' Shall I take you back to the ball-room ?' he asked. «And pray forgive me for having hurt you.' Act ll.—lß6s.—Time—the month of November; scene—a dancing-saloon in Sledgeman's .Flats. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and, as the night was a raw inolemeut one, the room was pretty well crowded. The counter, with its rows of polished glasses and bright pewter pots, was presided over by Joe Sledgeman in person, a fat, rather jolly-looking old man with a squint which tradition deolared had been acquired in his efforts to keep an eye on each end of the room at one and the same time. The company was composed for the most part of some of the least aristocratic individuals in Whitechapel. In the middle of the room a dozen couples were dancing to the music of a violin, while then less venturesome comrades —many of them deterred by an inability to stand steadily on their feet—formed a ring around them. A couple of men were fighting; but, as they were settling their little difference pretty quickly, no one thought fit to interfere; and near to them a rough-looking woman was giving the details of her last theft to an admiring audience. ' 'Ere, I'll yer all round —blowed if I won't,' she exclaimed at last—' the whole bilin'ofyer! 'Ere, Moll—'ere, boys! Nowj then, Gentleman Val, wot 'll yer 'avo ?' There were shouts of applause as they crowded around her.

'That's right!' 'Good for yer, Betty Atkins !' * Yer a good sort!' * Ginger slings!' ' Indian jumps!' ' That's it,' said the woman good-humoured-ly—'take it while yer can!' She was an incorrigible old sinner as regards morals, but a certain coarse kindliness always made her ready to share what she called her ' luck.' * Now then, Gentleman Val, won't 'e come ? Bring 'im 'ere, boys!' A dozen rough hands were laid upon the musician, who was tne one person in the room who had not responded to her invitation, and he was dragged before her. ' Well, my pretty fiddler, give it a name. It is the slings ye'U'ave ? ' ' No, thank you, Mrs Atkins; I am not thirsty.' A burst of derisive laughter greeted his words.

' Gentle-nan Val's taken the pledge !' ' Stand buck, my lads—we'll'aye a sermon!' Then an angrier voice—' Snove it down 'is throat, boys—'e never will drink with we !' Favourite though he was, the young fellow might hard fared somewhat badly had not SledgeuiaL interposed.

' Now none o' that I ' he cried. ' Gentleman Val, you get out o' this. Hurry up there—it is time to shut!'

This created a diversion, and in the midst of the scuffle that ensued Gentleman Val broke away from his captors, and, catching up his violin, ran hastily out of the house. Once on the pavement, he paused, hesitated a moment, and then trudged away steadily. 'lt is too late for the opium to-night,' he said to himself. ' I will go home.'

Home! Could it be called a home—the miserable garret to reach which he had to climb up five long rickety flights of stairs ? Past the room where a wretched woman sat listening for her drunken husband's footsteps—past the room whence issuedjrevelry and laughter—up and up ! At last he reached his own lodging, and, flinging open the tiny casement, he turned his pale haggard face to the stars. * Twenty- six years old to-day!'he murmured. ' And when I was a boy I thought birthdays were such splendid things ! Ah, well!' (To be continued.)